


Instantaneous

by BloodOnUrsuline



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship between Melissa McCall and Sheriff Stilinski, Gen, Just really fluff, Lots and lots of feels, M/M, Minor/Major Character Injury, One Shot, Parental Fears, Parents and Children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodOnUrsuline/pseuds/BloodOnUrsuline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriff John Stilinski handles many problems, many people, many situations. But when it comes to werewolves, Alphas, druids and his own son, he really has no idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instantaneous

* * *

  
Chlorahexadine. MediWash. Lemon hand sanitizer. Antiseptic floor cleanser. That lingering smell of medicine.

The Sheriff of Beacon Hills, John Stilinski, stood outside the brightly lit room. The very tips of his shoes lined up with the small strip of linoleum on the ground that indicated where the hallway ended and the patient room began. Behind him, the trauma surgeon he just finished speaking with gave orders to the oncoming nurses. His voice dropped a few notches and absently, John realized the doc probably thought he was listening in. He was, but truthfully, it was only in the most absent of ways.

Nothing new. “…multi-organ failure….system in shut-down…suspected sepsis…12 feet of intestine torn…positive MSRA…crushed larynx…trached in the ambulance…blood loss…claw marks…”

He took a deep breath to steady himself. All the scents of the ICU washed over him again. Then a soft smell of mint. Aftershave, maybe…though very faintly.

“Hey,” a very soft female voice nearly whispered at his side. John tilted his head to acknowledge, not needing to see the woman who wrapped her arm around his arm and leaned into him. “He did well in surgery.”

“Yeah…the doctors said they…didn’t think he’d make it but,” he huffed a dry noise, not quite a laugh, “he beat the odds and came through.”

“Too young to die,” she nodded, her face moving against his shoulder. “Got a lot more living to do.” He felt her chin come up before she took a step back. “Thank God you got there when you did.”

John practically ripped his arm from her faint hold before storming down the hall. Throwing the doors open, he burst into the hallway outside the ICU and continued to go at a furious pace. Smaller steps came just as fast from behind and he growled under his breath before ducking into an empty waiting room. He to the far wall and stood there, face hot as he puffed angry breaths. The click of the door being shut heralded another burst from him. This time, upturning a row of chairs that were connected together by a metal rod on their backs.

“What the hell was he thinking?” he snarled, pacing mere inches from the chairs that now lay lopsided on the floor and partially up the wall. “He…he knew this thing would kill him…this Darach thing…he knew he could die!” Spinning, he sent a baleful glare to the woman who just finished closing the blinds on the waiting room windows and now stood in front him with a blank expression. “He didn’t…he’s been lying to me time and time again and now, now I’m supposed to believe that werewolves and ghosts and druids and shapeshifters have all taken up residence in Beacon Hills. And that Derek Hale is in the center of this shitstorm and dragged all these…Christ, they’re just kids! What the hell was he thinking? My son…he could have...” He took a breath as if just coming up from being underwater for hours and moved as if to flip the other row of hapless chairs nearby when a firm hand grabbed his arm. He turned to yell, to scream, to do something, when another hand latched onto the opposite shoulder and he was pulled into a tight, insistent embrace.

Huffing breaths, John took a moment to calm, his hands still waving about occasionally in confusion and frustration before the instinct to hug back won out. He dragged her in closer and ducked his head down, his forehead touching the crown of her head. His brain throbbed and couldn’t make a coherent thought. His rib cage rattled from how hard his heart pounded. “What the hell is happening to our boys?” he choked, voice barely above a whisper. “Melissa, what is happening?”

“Everything. Everything is happening,” she answered back, her voice rough but firm. “Everything we can’t stop. Everything we can’t fix. Everything we can’t protect them against. It’s happening and I don’t know why.” They both stepped back and John searched the warm eyes of the woman before him. Melissa McCall still wore her scrubs from the shift she just finished, hair barely contained in a ponytail with flyaway strands coming from all angles. A line of moisture lay in both of her eyes as if at any second tears would come streaming down. She squeezed his arms and continued, “We’ve spent their entire lives worrying and preparing and showing them to how to be safe and strong and this…this isn’t in any goddamn parenting manual or TV special. But,” she stopped, wiping at her eyes then nose, sniffling softly, “John, I know this is insane and trust me, it’s a battle to not call Scott every 10 minutes to make sure he’s alive or find some way to lock him up and never let him out again. I can’t imagine…I don’t want to ever have to imagine being in there, watching my son struggle to live. I can’t lose Scott…I just…” The tears started to fall in earnest now and she brushed them aside before turning her gaze back to him. She groaned slightly when she realized John began to cry as well, the fat tears rolling down his reddened face. She used her clean sleeve to wipe them away before taking ahold of his shoulders again.

“I don’t know what I can do besides pray to every God, saint, angel, and diety in existence. But when Scott asks me for help, when he saids he needs me, I’m there. And between visits to the morgue and trips to Deaton, I’m not sure where I’ll end up drawing a line, if I ever will. Because he’s my son, John. And Stiles is your son. And you’re going to be there too, questioning your own sanity, your logic, every part of what you believe. For your son, your flesh and blood. Just…” She wrapped a hand around his cheek. “This is their world and…as scary as it is, I’m not walking away from Scott. Or Stiles. Or Issac. Or Lydia and Allison. Or, hell, even Derek Hale. It’s not easy but I want my son to be safe. And I want them all to come home to their parents and their homes and their own beds and not be afraid.”

John blinked, more tears tumbling down his cheek as his head dropped again. He tried to speak but it came out like stuttered vowels and broken letters. She pulled him in and hugged him tight. They stayed there for a while, holding on to each other, crying quietly about their children and the growing darkness outside their doors.

 

* * *

 

After many, many reassurances that yes, she will call him, text him, send smoke signals and/or a singing telegram if anything new or fascinating comes up, he shuts the door to her car and waves as she drives out of the parking lot and towards home. He shoots off a text to Scott instructing him to check in with his mother (“FOR GODS SAKE SHE HASN’T HEARD FROM YOU SINCE LAST NIGHT”) which gets a near prompt response (“Just left Derek’s…was covered in Alpha blood…texting her now!”) . With a somewhat relieved sigh, he wanders back into the hospital, nodding at a few people he knows before passing through the barrier doors into the emergency room. The early morning sees an empty waiting room and a fresh-faced intake coordinator at the desk. She spots him coming towards the door and hits the large black button on the underside of the desk. “You cant go ahead back, Sheriff,” she smiles softly.

“Thanks, Sherri,” he nods back as he passes through another set of doors and into the ER proper. New nurses crowd the desks as the evening shift pull on jackets and make to the exits. Manoevring around the staff, he finds the door to observation room 4C slightly ajar with the lights out inside. Stepping inside, he finds the switch for the small light over the counter and flicks it on. As the door shuts behind him, a soft glow eminates from the source and casts a pale white glow over the lower portion of the room. The counter is completely cleaned, all the surfaces bearing the medicinal scent of hospital-grade antimicrobal wipes. A few scuff marks from shoes appear like ink blots on the pale tile. A pair of mud soaked shoes rest at the foot of the hospital bed. Two red biohazard bags glare up from their place by the back wall, just waiting to be picked up and complete the absence of shed blood in the room..

Soft snoring comes from the bed, just beneath several thin blankets and pillows. The smell of sweat, Old Spice, and the fresh breeze detergent John buys slowly seeps into his nostrils. Unconsciously, his shoulders relax, his head stops throbbing, and his entire body sinks. While he feels the long night, the change in him right now both astounds and barely surprises him.

Leaning over, he rests a hand on a blanket covered shoulder and gently calls, “Hey, time to go.”

A grumble or two comes up before hands push away the blankets. A pair of pale eyes blink owlishly at him, the gaze fuzzy. “Dad? What time is it?”

John will only ever admit to one person, years and years down the road, how much the sound of his son’s voice brought him instantaneous peace and relief at that moment. The absolute wave of calm and joy that washed through him and took away so many doubts and pain just because his boy spoke.

His mouth functions independent of that thought as he answered, “Around 7:40 in the morning. We’ll hit the diner on the way home for breakfast.”

“Mmmhmmm,” Stiles groaned with a soft smile before yawning wide. “That sounds so good, I think I’ll let you get bacon today.”

“Steak and eggs,” John counters.

“Egg whites with no hashbrowns, no gravy, and you’ve got a deal,” Stiles sleepily counters, earning him a huffed laugh. Stiles sits up slowly, hissing as he rises and letting his father help him the rest of the way. John reached over and flicked the overhead light on. “Oh great, now I’m blind,” Stiles complained, blocking the new light from his eyes with one hand.

John inhales then lets out a shaky breath. Large swaths of white gauze and medical tape decorate his son’s chest, abdomen and left shoulder. Certain areas bear the tell-tale dark stain of drying blood and he knows that large lines of sutures, staples, and skin glue hide beneath the bandages as well. Stiles notices his father’s gaze and reachs out, making a grabbing motion towards a bag on a nearby chair. John hands it off, realizing latently that Isaac slipped in and out of this room within a few moments, barely noticed except by Stiles, John and Melissa. “Where’s Isaac?”

“Um…with Derek. He said Cora was healing but there was still an Alpha only partially dead so he went back to watch her while Derek and Scott and the Argents did their thing…you know, to make him…totally dead,” he mumbled out at the end, gesturing to nothing in particular. Stiles digs out a fresh shirt, long sleeved with two buttons at the top. John helps him get it on, cautious of his son’s injuries and making a mental note to ask exactly why Stiles is borrowing Derek Hale’s clothing.

“How’s Danny?” John had to look at his son, the question was so quiet. John pressed his lips together in a sympathetic expression.

“He came through. Lots of injuries. Doctors said he woke up after surgery but can’t really talk right now for the trach. His parents are coming back from vacation today to see him. Some guy from your school brought him in and practically torn the door of the ER getting him in for help. He left before he could be questioned though.” John shot him a sidelong glance.

Stiles nodded. “Ethan. I don’t know if he’ll be around for questioning. But…given how much he…likes, I guess is the best word, Danny, if he can be nearby, he will be.”

“He’s…an alpha, right?”

“Yeah. He and his twin brother, Aiden.” John shifts his gaze away and forces himself to turn off what Stiles dubbed his investigation mode. More time to ask more questions later.

Stiles grumbles to himself as he slides his feet into the dirty shoes. “Thank God for doormats,” he mutters before reaching into the bag and pulling out one of Scott’s hoodies. John keeps the comment about community clothing to himself Stiles manages to get his arms through the sleeves before zippering the front. “Ready?” he inquired quietly, eye balling the discharge papers as John rifled through them.

“Yeah, let’s get you home, kid,” John affirms.

It’s not until he gets them out and to the squad car that he realizes he kept his arm around Stiles’ shoulder, letting him lean into his side. That the need to hold him came back naturally, that it felt like when Stiles was a baby; that desire to keep him close, to check on him every 3 seconds, to make sure he had everything he needed. As if yesterday he was bringing him home from the birth center and now he was helping him buckle his seat belt around the many pieces of equipment keeping his skin together. Stiles winced as he adjusted, turning to slightly sit into the door as John climbed into the drivers’ seat.

They left the parking lot in a comfortable silence, traffic moving at a steady pace with no real delays beyond the extended light just before the diner. John pulled into a spot right by the doors just as someone finished vacating it. Turning the car off, the sat in silence for a moment, both of them quietly breathing. John closed his eyes and took a few meditative breaths, hearing the soft and sweet voice of his wife in his head. She told him to be patient, to be firm but kind, to remember their son will make mistakes but he’s got the biggest heart and just wants to help.

“Dad?” John cracked open one eye then the other before gazing over at his son. Stiles expression landed somewhere between penatent and sad. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he started but then stopped as John grabbed his good shoulder.

“Don’t be,” John managed, his voice cracking slightly. Giving him a soft shake, he nodded, “We can talk later but right now, if I don’t get coffee in me, I’m liable to fall asleep behind the wheel. And you’re liable to stay up all day if I don’t pump you full of pancakes and hot chocolate.”

Stiles perked up, blinking away the building water in his eyes before giving a big almost goofy smile. They climbed out of the car, one slowed by injury, the other slowed by age and time and made their way to the steps. John stopped short when he realized there was only a stair entrance and…they were steep. He nearly offered to head somewhere else but Stiles grabbed his father’s elbow and braced himself.

He huffed, “Steps or no steps, I was promised pancakes, so I’m getting pancakes.” John chuckled slightly and helped him take each step at a time. When the reached the top, Stiles heaved a small sigh of relief and glanced at his dad with a smile, “Hell, I even let you get regular eggs.”

“With gravy.”

“Don’t push it, old man.”

**Author's Note:**

> A brief foray into more current happenings on the show. I'm working on the next chapter for "Howl" so hopefully this will tide you over until then. Thanks for reading!


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